Til Death Do Us Part

19

“Hmmm” He pulls the fabric out of my hands, shrugging me away as though he can’t stand my closeness, and fixes it himself, stepping away from me. The wall is going up, and his signals are screaming that he wants space.

“When did you pick it up. It’s not a brand you normally shop for.” I eye up the branded bag, not recognizing it at all, but the quality seems high-end and not high street.

“It was a gift. Nothing wrong with trying something different for a change.” He turns and throws me a brief, strange look. A weird glance as though telling me something but not committing to look at me and then walks off. Leaving me in here as he goes back into his office without a backward glance.

My heart flips over, that insane gut feeling from the night he took out his sports car hits me again, and I find myself impulsively leaning out to look inside the bag for any kind of card or note and find nothing. The bag is empty save from some tissue paper, yet the faint scent of familiar perfume lingers around it.

I freeze up. My hand is on the edge of the thick paper, and my stomach lurches up into my mouth as I stand there motionless for a blank second. It’s the perfume I wear, and I know where I smelled it once before. It’s a sensation like a sucker punch to the gut and ice-cold water thrown in my face simultaneously as my brain puts two and two together and gets a complicated response.

My hand shakes, and I straighten myself up, my legs suddenly weak, arguing with my flawed sense of logic that I’m overreacting and being overly suspicious, but I can’t stop the growing nausea inside of me. I turn and walk after him into the bright room, and he’s already at his desk, leaning over and putting things in order so he can leave.

“Who gifted something so expensive? Something so not you? A client? A friend? Why am I only just hearing this?” I sound exactly like one of those over-possessive jealous wives in movies and hate myself for letting this c***k in my mask show. Pushing down nausea and rising hysteria.

“Don’t ask me about my personal life, and I won’t ask you about yours. What is this now, Sohla?” he doesn’t look at me, only picks up his cell and car keys and slides them in his pocket before straightening up. It only pushes me into further madness as I swirl uncontrollably inside, and my entire mental state rocks.

“A woman? It smells like perfume… my perfume.” I spit in accusation, breathless.

“It sat in our wardrobe the last few days; it probably smells of your perfume. That’s where you put it on. Don’t do this.” He dodges me again, his tone unconvincing, and I have the urge to run over and shake him. A violent hurt racking up from my toes, and I want to scream the words out at him to answer the f*****g question.

“You’re saying it’s not from a woman?” I state through gritted teeth to keep my cool, panic gripping my heart.

“I’m leaving. Please don’t start this. We don’t have that kind of relationship, and I’m not in the mood to be interrogated.” Jyeon doesn’t give me another second of his time. He flips his laptop shut in haste and stalks off out of the room, leaving the door to swing shut behind him, and yet like a sad, pathetic, desperate lover, I follow him. I clench my fists and try to calm my erratic breathing.

“You can’t leave. We have a crisis meeting to call. We have issues with the distribution chain for the flex company.” I’m grasping at straws, deep down knowing I don’t want him to go to wherever he’s going and whoever gave him that jacket. IT’s intuition, a heart begging another heart not to betray them.

“You handle it. You always do just fine without me. You always will.” It’s a weird tone, lacking emotion, and I finally get another look thrown back my way. Only it’s a wary and dark expression that I can’t read, and I feel like he’s giving me subtle messages.

I want to scream at him, run after him, and cling to him, but I’m aware of the receptionist right at my left and how quickly rumor would fly if I behaved in any kind of insane manner. I take a deep breath and paste on a blank expression, steeling my inward trembles and pulling a carefree attitude from god knows where. Reverting to the cold and bland me that I know Jyeon hates the most.

“I’ll see you at two pm then,” I call after him, and Jyeon doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Just walks away.

I wait until he’s out of sight and turn and stalk back into his office, bee-lining right for the dressing room and I yank the bag out of the chair and tip it upside down. So all the tissue paper falls out, and I shake it ruthlessly to dislodge anything inside, finding nothing at all.

The smell of my perfume is ingrained into it as though it’s been held by someone wearing it, or maybe he’s right, and I didn’t see it in our walk-in closet, and it absorbed my perfume from the air. I turn it back over and flip it, so the brand name faces me, pulling out my cell phone and google it. Knowing I’m being stupid, it’s like I’m possessed.

It’s a local domestic brand with one store because they’re an up-and-coming small boutique that hand makes everything they sell. The very upside is that they boast unique and one-of-a-kind items, so no two are the same, making this easier to track. My finger hovers over the listed phone number, and I mentally pause. Shaking from head to toe and telling myself not to do this.

Live in ignorance, don’t scratch the surface. Let it go. We can go on living as we are, and that’s enough. I can leave this boat unrocked and ignore this feeling inside of me. It’s better to look the other way and act like there’s nothing there for my sanity.

His weird behavior lately, distracted focus, and veiled messages whenever we talk. The gut feeling inside of me not only started recently but lingered from just before he had that girl in his office. I’ve felt it for weeks, that something is off, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I press it despite myself and hold my cell to my ear with ice-cold hands and a pit growing so heavy inside of me I feel like my legs may cave in.

“Hello, Favcoanda designer clothing. How can I help you?”

“Hello there, I’m calling to find out if you have a purchase record on a coat that was left in my company by mistake. It has your brand on the label and seems very expensive, but we have no way to source the owner.” I coolly lie through my teeth. Bold in doing so, I have to lean my hand against the wall to steady myself as dizziness takes hold. My heart hammering painfully inside my chest.

“Oh, if you brought it to the store, we could see if we have the p*****t record for that transaction, but we only have that on a non-cash transaction. We don’t keep records for every item.” She has a bubbly, upbeat voice of a young person, and I close my eyes to simmer my tone.

“Can’t I just describe it, and you could tell me who owns it, we’re a massive and busy company, and I want to return it before the end of the day.”

“I’m sorry we can’t hand out customer's details, but we’d be happy to contact them and have them collect from here if you have someone drop it off.”

I chew my lip, cursing under my breath, and know when I’m defeated. Mentally wracking my brain on how to find out and knowing I would have to take it from Jyeon when he didn’t notice to have them check.

“Right. I’ll do that. Thank you for your time.”

After cutting the call, I throw the bag down and kick it across the floor in aggravation. Leaving it there as I walk out in anger and push through the outer door to go. Stamping my steps and growing heated with everyone.

I catch sight of his receptionist in my peripheral, recoiling away from me and shriveling small to go unseen, and she irritates me. That meek personality doesn’t seem to annoy him in the slightest among our female staff, and I just don’t get it. I swing past and then stop dead in my tracks as a thought hits me right in the forehead.

“Dee?” I pause, stilling every nerve in my body, and turn to her with a suddenly very smiling and probably terrifying demeanor. I usually never give this girl the time of day.

“Yes, Vice President Park?” She blinks rapidly, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, intimidated and afraid of me. Shocked I would directly address her.

“Do you know who he is meeting for lunch? He forgot to specify.” I ask outright, daring her to try and lie to me, and she seems to pale visibly.

“Ummmm, the liaison for a company we’re investing in, I believe. He arranged it himself today.”

My heart almost stops in my chest. I falter, blink, and then catch myself before it’s obvious and smile even brighter.

“Biochem?” I state it blankly, devoid of reaction, even if my heart turns to rock in my chest and ceases to beat. A fluttering yet also painful stab inside of me.

“I think so.”